


i’ll be living just like this

by brunchclub



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Demonic Possession, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Phil Watson, Physical hurt/comfort, Possession, no beta we die like they/them, or she/them in this case, possible hurt sbi, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, this is not a ship fic I will steal your bones and homes if you even dare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27698420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunchclub/pseuds/brunchclub
Summary: “His eyes were white.” Another insisted. Techno, then.“His smile.” Tommy again. Distraught.He pondered the conversation.He didn’t find himself caring all that much.Must have just been a trick of the light.—When Phil returns home from a trip he doesn’t remember, his sons try everything they can to get their father back from the thing making him Not Phil.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Familial relationships only-, Tommyinnit & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 40
Kudos: 160





	1. and i know just where i should go

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> this is a work that I wanted to do while I was updating r.e.exe! that will still be my priority but I really didn’t want to lose this idea to my spotty memory ;D :d

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil comes home from a trip. A book is found. Things get weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a rewrite of the original because I wasn’t satisfied with it!! some plot points are different :>

Sandals against stone grated against Techno’s sensitive ears, gravel catching in the grooves and skittering across the cobble. His every movement was calculated as he strained to hear even against the pain; every shift accounted for. He could hear his own breath, which concerned him; if he could, so could the man outside.

The clicking became louder. Every muscle in his body froze, tensing together with the instinct of a predator. Every warring instinct inside him screamed to fight, or flee.

But if he did either, he was sure to lose.

He willed his heart to beat silently, barely breathing. Not even a shallow puff of breath disturbed the hair hanging in front of his face. His brothers followed suit; he could hear it. Even if not experienced in being a predator, they knew how to hide as prey.

Phil could never hear heartbeats before. Never until his head was against their chests, checking silently in the night like he used to when Techno was younger, when would hear him slowly open the front door, wary of the creak; back from a trip, but unwilling to wake his resting sons. The twins had always woken; but never had the heart to tell him and stop the quick visits, the smooth hand brushing over their foreheads.

Whatever was inside of him didn’t deliver soft, fatherly routine, the familiar kind that settled him.

Phil could never hear heartbeats before.

But what was inside him  _ could. _

  
  


—

“Oi! I’m back, boys!” The front door was pulled open suddenly before Phil could even push fully in. Two boys immediately latched themselves to him, causing him to let out a small grunt of surprise. “Oh— hello, Tubbo, Tommy. Been no trouble for Wil’ and Tech’, I’m sure?”

One brunette head ducked, a bit bashful, while the blonde only plastered an innocent smile onto his face.

“No, Mr. Phil!” Tubbo squeaked first, though the sheepish way he held himself gave him away somewhat. He looked away from Phil’s gaze, even when he ruffled his hand through his hair.

“Told you that you can call me Phil, Tubs’.” He snickered.

Tommy was the next to try and speak up, though as soon as he opened his mouth, he was interrupted by the brunette leaning against the doorframe of the foyer. Tommy wrinkled his nose, turning to protest the intrusion.

“Return of clingyinnit then?” Wilbur asked, crossing his arms. A lazy smile played across his lips, eyes shaded somewhat by the hair curling into his face. Behind him, Techno stood a silent totem, though his own cocked brow told Phil that his expectation of smoothness had not gone as he’d thought.

“Not even clingy!” The younger huffed, extricating himself from the brace he’d begun. With a shake of his shirt, he began brushing off imaginary dust.  _ “Phil’s _ the clingy bastard. I am a  _ massive _ man.”

Apparently Tubbo had no such problem with the insinuation of being clingy, since he still clung to Phil’s side, hand on his sleeve. He shot a quick grin to Phil, before turning to the still-complaining blonde.

“Stop being such a baby, Tommy.” 

“I am  _ not—“ _

“‘M gonna go visit my colony.” He stated, though his eyes asked for permission. Despite Tubbo not being his legal son — and wandering into his house more often than not —Phil felt he’d become somewhat of a father figure to his youngest’s best friend. And apparently the kid felt similarly.

“Sure thing.” He replied easily.

“Tommy?” The brunette asked hopefully. He shook his bangs away from his face, which earned a pinched look of confusion from his blonde friend.

He pretended to think it over.

“I’ll be over in a minute, maybe.” He sniffed finally. Phil recognized the old distancing trick from a mile away; he’d probably be over sooner than in a minute. They could barely separate from each other to say goodnight, but Tommy’s shaky ‘Big Man’ reputation was at risk; so by some unspoken, unrecognized code, he had to wait at last a few seconds before he left, or only to leave without the annoying, albeit affectionate title ‘clingyinnit’.

“Okay, whatever.” Tubbo seemed to recognize it as well, since he simply shrugged. He grinned an exasperated but fond smile; something that very nearly startled Phil. Reminded him far too much of when his own kids had told him to look in the mirror to catch the infamous ‘Phil-Not-Mad-But-Kind-Of’ look he had apparently been using after their antics. After a moment, he grinned back, giving a final pat to the teen’s head before he bounded out the front door.

As soon as the kid was gone, he looked back to his three eldest, still bickering, with a smile.

That smile almost faltered when daggers drove at his his eyes from behind his eyelids, sharp pains that throbbed in time with the headache he hadn’t even realized had been slowly building at his temples.

He felt his face twitch, but quickly shook his head to rid himself of the sudden prick.

“Ack, shudders,” he explained, to the questioning gazes of his kids. “Fuckin’ cold, isn’it?”

“It’s the middle of summer, Phil.” Techno commented, disbelieving. His hair was pulled up into the same long ponytail he’d kept it in throughout the hot season to avoid the dreadful heat that came with having it down. Occasionally Wilbur or Phil would braid it, but it mostly just hung behind his back, a few stray pieces moving with the skeptical exhale he released. 

“Well; it’s more like the end. Practically fall. Beanie weather.” Wilbur rebutted, thoughtful. At least he agreed  _ somewhat; _ but it was more likely because he enjoyed the later seasons, something about perfect jumper weather.

“Barely—“ Tommy scoffed. “—but that’s in the details! What’d you go for this time, huh?” His eyes gleamed. Usually after trips, Phil had some kind of tale to tell; whether a short excerpt about a particularly annoying villager, or a longer story about a troubling tribe of mobs. Typically, though, he came back with material. Material Tommy wanted to get his grubby little hands on. It’s worth was irrelevant; somehow, the gremlin had inherited the same restless looting skills as the rest of them. Between one of the twins proclaiming himself a ‘dirty crime boy’ and the other pillaging old structures, and he himself adventuring and taking, it was no wonder their habits had taken to him.

Phil opened his mouth to reply, before he shut it with a snap. Though he thought he’d remembered before, the memory of whatever he had done had left him in flurry, stolen away right before he looked at it.

“Let’s check, hm?” He suggested, to dodge the question.

He slung his bag off his shoulder and set it down on the kitchen counter, letting it settle with a light ‘thud’.

“Kind of heavy, huh?” Wilbur wondered aloud. He propped his head up with his hands on his cheeks, elbows resting on the counter, causing his words to soften slightly.

Inside his ‘inventory’ — which he had lovingly nicknamed due to how well organized it could keep — was a single book and a few basic items. Tools, food, and empty water bottles. The apples and bread he’d brought were untouched, while the bottles were bone dry. 

He licked his lips, suddenly feeling thirsty.

“Did you just, not eat?” Techno asked, seemingly droll. He knew his son well enough to note the faint concern in his voice; and felt it as well. He jerked at the sudden grip on his shoulder, turning to glance at its source. His pink-haired son stared back, confused.

“Wasn’t really that hungry. Had a couple bites though.” He dismissed his question, a bit startled Techno had gotten behind his shoulder. The action had been normal between them; familial touch, light and affectionate in lieu of what Techno thought to be more constricting hugs. Phil was more worried that he hadn’t recognized the stealthy steps, when he usually would have by muscle memory alone. 

Looking back at the bag, Phil didn’t remember eating or drinking at all.

Or bringing a book, for that matter.

“Is that a book?” Tommy grimaced. “Is it magic, maybe? Enchanted?” His dismissive tone turned excited rather quickly as Phil pulled it out of the bag, turning it over in his hands. It felt warm.

“Not quite sure yet. Could just be normal; but it didn’t have a title.” Suddenly, information about the tome was lining up to be spoken, words arranged in neat order, a script stamped against his brain. He didn’t even look at the book as he listed off its characteristics, despite not remembering a thing about it. “Seems pretty old. Haven’t opened up the pages yet; but I don’t think I’ll be able to read them.”

“...Why?” Wilbur ventured. His hands moved to support his head by his chin, letting him lean forward to look at it. “If you haven’t even opened it. 

“Just a feeling.” Phil felt disconnected from the conversation, a balloon tied to a thin string. His eyes stung with sudden sharpness, pain building until he had to drop the book from numbed fingers. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Well, I actually tried to read it in the dark the other night. Probably couldn’t because of the fuckin’ eyestrain or somethin’.”

“Maybe  _ you _ need glasses.” The brunette suggested. His own spectacles were off, probably tucked in his guitar case. For some reason Phil detested the idea.

“Not that old yet, Wilbur!” He protested, shaking his head again to clear his head of the pain. The numbness in his fingers had spread to his palms, and vaguely he wondered if that was a problem. Phil stuffed them into his pockets, ignoring how the way he had to slouch slightly increased the weight of his wings against his back. He couldn’t feel those either, though he could hear the ruffle of feathers like his head was underwater; distorted and soft. “Probably just need to sleep it off.”

“Probably.” Techno echoed. Ever the skeptic. Phil felt his eyes narrow unconsciously. He forced his face to relax into a tired smile. “Off to bed with you, boomer.”

“Not even close. Wil’s rules, anyway.” He refuted. He began walking towards the stairs on autopilot anyway, “No boomers, zoomers, weebs and…?” He waited, expectant.

“Marvel stans.” Tommy filled in absently. He looked mostly fascinated with the book. He squinted, moving to touch the red, splotchy stains on the cover that Phil had previously covered with his sleeve. 

Phil moved faster than he realized, based on how the rush of air ruffled Tommy’s hair. He thought, absently, that his son should get a haircut. Look more his age. He plucked the book from the counter, grinning to soften the movement.

“Not sure what’s up with this book. I’ll be taking it; so one of you don’t, ah, summon some kind of fuckin’ demon.” Tommy shrunk away slightly, hunching slightly. 

The quiet blanketed the kitchen. Phil slipped the book into his pocket, satisfied. Somehow it fit, despite it being thick and heavy a moment ago. His fingers burned with heat when he touched it, feeling returning. He felt the dual looks that the twins shot each other behind his back. He straightened, shrugging to himself. 

He avoided the creaky stair like he had done for years, pushing open his door.

As he did, he Heard.

It wasn’t quiet or muffled whatsoever; there were no reverberations to jumble the words his children whispered. Just Chat.

“What was  _ that.” _ Tommy mumbled. His voice shook. 

“He moved really fast. Even for Phil.” Wilbur observed, hushed. 

“Might just be paranoid after a trip?” Techno suggested. Even his voice was unsure, unsteady.

Phil pondered the conversation, stepping into his room.

He didn’t find himself caring all that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! comments are ALWAYS appreciated, make my day FOR SURE


	2. what fight have i got into

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wilbur wakes up in the middle of the night. feathers are shed. we are introduced to the Hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy!

Wilbur wandered in the night, sometimes, when his dreams became restless. He shut his eyes against the flashes of his nightmares. They were bubbling to the surface, roiling like hot water that burned small, teardrop shaped holes in his skin, all white eyes and darkness and cold bright lights.

He didn’t bother turning the lights on when he left his room. Muscle memory had him ignoring the furniture, gliding along the wooden floors like a ghost and ignoring the noisy wooden planks no one had bothered to fix. 

He was thirsty, throat raw and scratchy. 

Soft snoring kept him from waking his twin. His sleep schedule was spotty at best, and nonexistent at worst. 

But it was paranoia that kept him from waking his father.

The heater was near, buzzing in the kitchen. It hummed gently. 

Glasses clinked in the cabinet, and he winced as he pulled one free, the chimes hitting the center of his head, splitting it like a chisel to stone. 

He held the glass under the faucet, ignoring how his hand trembled slightly. The moon cast too much light on the cup, lighting it’s rim. It caught on his eyes. He wished he’d brought his glasses, if only to stem the headache squinting was beginning to give him. He brought the glass to his lips and exhaled down the cup. He watched the condensation fog the glass, turning as he sipped. 

A rustle caused him to splutter, choking on the few drops of water that he managed to swallow.

His gaze swept over the living room, looking for anything he’d missed before. His eyes snagged on a softer edge, scalloped. Small strips of light ran through the edges of feathers, scattering little pieces of moonbeam over the floor.

“Gods, dad,” Wilbur heaved a sigh, letting a relieved smile take to his face. “you scared the  _ shit  _ out of—“ 

The figure turned its head over one shoulder.

The silhouette was made purely black by the window’s view of the moon behind him. Only two white slits stared back at him.

His heart dropped in time with his glass. 

It shattered against the floor, crashing violently and then tinkling prettily. 

“Wil?” Wilbur didn’t remember closing his eyes, but they opened as hands gently pried his fists open. He felt the pressure where his nails had been digging into his palms release, leaving small red crescents behind. “Wil, you alright?”

Concerned green eyes met his own. Even the sclera were darkened by shadow; not glowing, not white.

He willed his hands to stop shaking with a small shudder.

He nodded, mouth dry again.

“Okay—  _ good,  _ okay.” His father released his hands, though he held his arms out. Wilbur practically fell into the shorter man’s embrace, ignoring how his palms stung when he gripped the fabric of his shirt. “Nightmare, huh? No problem.” He filled the silence that the brunette didn’t care to. His dad was the first to pull away, unusually. 

When Wilbur looked at him quizzically, his gaze seemed far away.

“I’m going to clean this up, alright?” He verified. 

“Y-yeah. Do you need—“

“I’ve got it, Wilbur.” The blonde interrupted. The cold bite of his voice was somewhat softened by the smile he bore, even if it curled a little too sharply at the edges.

The uneasiness that had gone in the beginning of the hug had begun to ooze back into Wilbur’s skin. He felt prickles down his spine, hairs standing on edge; the way Techno described it when he was on the edge of the battle. Except, less excited.

Scared.

He swallowed.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Sure thing.” The figure chirped back.

Wilbur moved away facing the mess, unwilling to turn his back to the figure.

His room came by too slow. 

He closed the door, clicking the lock shut. He sank against it, knees coming up to his chest and head between them.

His breaths came to shallow.

“What the fuck was that.” He asked aloud, in barely a whisper.

But he received no answer from his silent walls.

—

Techno was both weary and wary. 

His cloak hung off of his shoulders, unusually heavy. Usually the solid weight was a comfort, soft and comfortable against sensitive skin. When Phil had first learned about how delicate he and Wilbur’s skin was, he had gotten them soft fabrics; stuff that didn’t scratch at sometimes dry-prone skin. His cloak was made of the same stuff, much like Wilbur’s jumpers. The smoothness, however, did nothing to reassure the piglin hybrid of good things to come. A certain ominous feeling was looming, pushing insistently against the back of his brain. He felt squished, squeamish.

Techno grimaced at his face in the mirror. His hair was beginning to curl in familiar patterns, looser than Wilbur’s due to the sheer weight of how much of it hung from his head. He’d made a mistake taking it out from a braid before he could do anything with it. 

He could have his brother braid it anyway.

Between the nimble fingers of his brother and father, the pinkette’s hair was nearly never down; and when it was, it was carefully combed through. Each of them had a fascination with it; both comfortable, one more respectful, and the other comfortable and fanatical, wandering fingers always twisted in his locks.

Wilbur wasn’t usually up until the late morning, or even as late as the early afternoon. Techno could relate, really, but not on Hunt days. He strode out of his room displaying every ounce of the king he portrayed himself to be, before knocking once on his twin’s door.

“I’m coming in, you better be fucking decent.” He announced, hand closing around the doorknob and pushing in. He tried to, at least. His brows furrowed, lines creasing his forehead as he tried again. “Wilbur.” He knocked again.

Rarely did his brother lock his door. Even more rarely did he not respond to a few calls, the attention freak he was. Usually at least a couple startled, waking squawks were audible through the door.

The hybrid’s ears twitched as the floorboards creaked behind him. He thrust his arm out behind him, catching Tommy by the collar and dragging him in front of him. The poor kid was on the verge of falling back asleep, it seemed, held up by sheer instinct and Techno’s grip alone.

“Gremlin.” 

Tommy responded with some kind of half-awake, unintelligible grumble made worse by the fact that his toothbrush was still in his mouth, hand moving it in some kind of facsimile of a productive morning task. 

“Wh’bt.” He groaned. 

“Pick the lock.”

“Need a pin—“ Before Tommy could finish, he was fishing a clip out of his pocket, depositing it in his hand. 

Tommy squinted up at him. Ultimately, he apparently decided it wasn’t a big enough problem to lose the drowsiness he’d been slugging through and have to face the day, since the blonde only turned over the pin and stuck it through the keyhole, jiggling it open with a few practiced movements.

“Y’r  _ wel’ome.” _ Tommy sniffed, meandering back off to whatever task he’d been in the middle of completing.

“Thanks.” Techno tossed back over his shoulder, pushing open the door to his twin’s room. He stopped as the door jammed slightly, heavier than he’d remembered. He peered against the darkness of the room, blackout curtains shutting any natural light. Only the beam from the hallway shone through the crack in the doorway, illuminating the slopes of a body, flush against the door he’d been pushing open.

“Wilbur.” He kicked the body lightly, exhaling a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when it groaned. 

“‘Hwha’.” With another nudge from his foot, his twin rolled over, arms flopping against the rug and wood of his floor. Techno pushed the door further into his body until he was able to slip in, the brunette just taking the abuse without further complaint. 

He crouched down, poking him in the chest, and ignoring the grunt that came out of him at the jab. 

“Why on the  _ floor?” _ He asked dryily. “Your bed isn’t far away. At all.”

“Was tired.” Was the response he got, a lazy arm only jerking up to slap away another jab. 

“Suuuure.” He drawled. “Get up, eboy.”

“I wish Tommy hadn’t taught you that.” 

“Mhm.” When Wilbur showed no signs of getting up on his own, the younger twin wrapped his arms under the other’s, dragging him up and watching in disgusted awe as he only stretched like a cat. “What is wrong with you.”

“A lot. Stoppit.” Another lazy swat towards his arm as Techno heaved him up, finally flopping the taller onto his bed. 

“Stop complaining.” Techno suggested brightly, sitting primly on the edge of the mattress. “Braid my hair?”

That at least perked his brother up. He could practically see his fingers twitching.

“Okay.” He agreed amicably, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up. “What were you thinking?”

“You and Phil could do a braid crown, or whatever you call it.” He offered. Absentmindedly, he ran a few fingers through the locks that had managed to escape their place tucked behind his ears, snagging against the curls briefly before parting. 

A moment of silence where there should have been only cheery agreement stopped the movement, as he glanced over his shoulder.

His brother’s expression had soured considerably, a blankness overtaking his gaze.

“Wil?”

“Hm?” He started, refocusing. “Uh— I don’t know. Aren’t you doing the Hunt today? Maybe it would be better to just, do a braid.” It was a feeble excuse. Techno had Hunted with his hair down. The topic of their father was making his brother uncomfortable for some unknown reason, that much was clear. 

That was enough for him.

“If you say so, oh Great Wilbur.” He exaggerated, deadpan. He pushed his hair back from where it had fallen in front of his shoulders, offering it for him to braid.

Techno heard his brother shuffle into a cross-legged sit on top of his comforter, snickering and pulling his hair away from where it rested, careful of sensitive, twitching ears. 

The gentle motions of fingers against his scalp relaxed him to what could only generously be called a slouch. He was almost laying down, only moving when his brother shifted his head to grab another lock of hair. 

The pinkette only opened his eyes when the hands stopped carding through his hair, tensing minutely against his head. He turned his gaze to where the door was ajar, casting soft light from where he’d left it open. Most of it was blocked by a backlit figure, a silhouette. 

“Hey, Phil.” Techno lifted a lazy hand in greeting, closing his eyes again.

The fingers were still tense. 

He blinked slowly, turning his head to look up at his twin. He cocked a brow. Wilbur was simply staring at Phil, who was looking just as confused as Techno felt.

“Uhhhh.” He searched for something to break the silence. “Uhh— Phil. Hunt today?” 

“Yeah sure—“ he seemed distracted; which was only reaffirmed with his next question. “Wil’ and Tom’s coming?”

“By your own rules, Tommy’s too young. And Wil never comes.” He pointed out wryly. “Doesn’t like it.”

He felt a sudden pressure against his scalp, fingers pressing in. A sure sign that Wilbur was in agreement, especially since he was nodding slightly.

Phil’s face twisted in confusion before it settled into a bit of surprise.

“No idea what I was thinking.” He confessed. “Brain’s turned to fuckin’ mush. Sorry, Wil— must’ve been thinking of something else.” Their father apologized, shifting.

“It’s fine.” His voice was clipped; none of the usual affection or adoration reserved for his family colouring his tone.

Phil seemed to not notice anything wrong, since he smiled brightly.

“We‘ll get a move on rather soon then, yeah?” He suggested.

“It’s still the morning.” Techno pointed out in response. The conversation was becoming more disjointed and awkward with every wrong turn each of them took. He could feel the tension. He could have cleaved it with his sword. “...you sure you’re alright to go on with it?”

“I’m fine.” Again, he dismissed his worry; like he had in the kitchen. “I thought we could go somewhere different this time. Spruce forest, maybe.”

“That’s a bit away, isn’t it?” Wilbur piped up, though his voice was still quiet and rough. 

“Well, yeah— but if we left early enough, we could definitely make it back in time.” He promised. 

“Alright.” Techno shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Great.” Phil grinned, rapping his knuckles against the doorway. “See you in a minute, then!” 

The pinkette watched as a single dark feather fell from his father’s wings. He spied where it had come from almost immediately; out of place, on his coverts — a term he’d only ever learned when helping him preen the feathers back into place — a white one replaced it.

Stark against the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was kind of fucked up right? so is phil rn <3
> 
> hope you enjoyed! if you did, consider leaving a comment about guesses about the chapter/what will happen next, or just general things ! it really makes my day :D
> 
> wherever you are, have a nice day!


	3. the testaments they told the entity’s eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flying and walking. father and son talk. the Hunt begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am I posting chapters of this to keep you entertained while I build suspense of respawn.error.exe? yes, yes I am
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, thanks for all the comments on the last one! stick around until the end for some art :>
> 
> hope you enjoy!

“I can’t believe I still don’t get to go.” Tommy complained, tossing his head back. He’d dropped onto the couch like a sack of potatoes, all uncomfortable angles and bad posture. 

“Phil’s already said you’re too young, like, a million times.” Wilbur replied, examining his nails. His replies were still a bit cold, but he seemed to have warmed slightly from the shaky nervousness that Techno had felt around him earlier. “Attempt listening, child.”

Techno felt it only proved Wilbur’s point when Tommy stuck his tongue out at him. 

He ignored them, continuing to run his whetstone gently along the edge of his blade.

It was at that moment Phil chose to walk in, effectively saving him from having to sit through the bickering that was sure to ensue. 

“Ready?” Phil confirmed with him, adjusting his hat on his head with his free hand. The other was busy slinging his bag over his shoulder, securing it over a wings. 

“Ready.” He sighed, pushing himself up from where he’d sunk into a chair. His sword was sheathed with a small click, small chunk of grindstone tossed haphazardly within his bag.

“Bye, Tommy, Wilbur.” Phil grinned with a wave. 

“Bye dad.” 

“Bye.” They chimed together, one certainly less enthusiastic than the other.

The front door clicked shut behind them, the last barrier between them and the forest. 

Techno watched as Phil ruffled his wings, tips spreading out to the sky with more room to open. 

“Flying or walking?” Phil grinned at him. 

Techno’s heart warmed.

_ This _ was Phil. All easy smiles and kind offers. Wilbur’s paranoia lingered at the back of his brain, nagging. It was quickly drowned out by his good-natured puff of a sigh. 

“You can fly.” He offered, settling an absent hand on the hilt of his blade. “I think I’ll walk.”

“Sounds fair to me! Just call, right?” The little sliver of worry that still tinted his voice at any show of independence should have annoyed Techno; he was an accomplished warrior, for the sake of the Gods. Instead, it only reminded him of soft feathers and even younger days. 

“Alright.” The gentleness in his voice even caught him off guard, though it seemed to make Phil even happier, if that was possible. All trace of awkwardness was gone as his wings beat in the clearing. With a short running jump, he was off, gaining altitude in a steep curve that Techno could only watch. He climbed with a few thrusts of the feathered appendages, soon swiftly passing into the clouds. At the top of his ascent, his feathers curled in tight to him. A practiced dive. Just as he was about to graze the treetops, his wings unfurled, lifting him a bit before he hit the leaves.

And he would have you believe he didn’t like showing off.

Techno huffed a disbelieving laugh, setting off to follow the path his father led him to.

—

Techno kept spying little dark feathers on the ground, tangled with the unkempt blades of grass that covered the plains. The grasslands were beginning to darken and desaturate, turning a deeper forest green that signaled the snowy taiga growing from the horizon. The volume of them surprised him. Phil rarely shedded so much; and usually, it came as a result of a molt.

Techno shuddered thinking of it.

Phil rarely got sick, some kind of freakish mix between an almost perfect immune system and determination to not let anything get between him and productivity. A molt was the closest he ever got. Every spring and fall, without fail, his older, more damaged blood feathers that he couldn’t preen out fell, sealed at the tips and replaced with pin feathers, waxy-covered skewers that poked from beneath the rest of the feathers. Throughout the shed, the rest of the older feathers fell. 

Their father handled it with his typical grace, though with a bit more swearing. It pricked, apparently, by his description, an itchy poke where each of his feathers were constrained within their sheaths. Though he tried to control himself, the rest of the house was more than aware of how irritated it made their dad, and they didn’t fault him for it. After all, during the process, if he flew at all it was shaky and apparently unpleasant, feathers shedding and being replaced like cactus spines sticking out of the muscle. At least, they didn’t fault him, when they were older.

They found it helped, each individually, when they helped preen the stubborn growths back into place, gently rubbing away the coverings where Phil couldn’t reach. It was a process they had perfected after trial and error; particularly when a young and secretive Tommy found out he could cut the sheaths by pressing and dragging down lightly with a knife, avoiding the edges of the feathers. That turned out not to be the most effective process, based on how Phil had shrieked, unexpectant of the sting of the blade cutting down an unready and stiff coating. Tommy had been the most apologetic that Techno had almost ever seen him, dropping the utensil to the ground with a clatter and putting his hands up, stepping back with a splutter of apologies.

Wilbur had shrieked louder than Phil when he’d seen the blood, jumping almost high enough to hit his head on the ceiling. On any regular, small bird, the blood might have been problematic. As it was, apparently it was little enough to not actually hinder their adoptive father, who was more freaked out about his freaked out children than the startle he’d been given.

They had all eventually calmed down. Of course, he’d watched from the sidelines, entirely unconcerned for his dad.

Entirely.

The remiscience lasted longer than he’d expected, apparently, because soon a flutter broke him out of his thoughts. He blew a cold breath up to displace the small scapular feather that had landed on his nose, watching it fall to the ground in time with the feet landing in the snow next to him. His father sunk down slightly, the snow’s top frozen layer crunching underneath his boots.

“Are you molting?” Techno asked, studying the feather on the ground.

“Huh?” Phil had apparently been preoccupied with grabbing something out of his bag, since he looked up from where he’d been digging in it. “Uhhh, I don’t think so?” One wingtip stretched to where Phil could peer over it, craning his neck to search for any incoming pin feathers. “Not that I can tell. Would be a bit early, yeah?”

“They’re coming in lighter, though,” he observed, looking at the outstretched limb critically. “and you’re, well, shedding, a bit.”

“Probably just too much time in light coloured fuckin’ biomes ‘er something mate, trying to camouflage myself.” The joke eased the small tension he’d been feeling grow minutely, but he could help but send a small glance over to the white feathers every once in a while, noting their increased claim over the dark expanse. 

Eventually, though, his attention was snagged by another blinding white; the snow on the crest of the hill they’d been slugging through beamed back at him, orange light reflecting into his retinas. The sun was setting, right on time.

The sunset was quick, glowing orange and pink hues that deepened briefly with the night before disappearing, fading from wisps into nothing in mere moments. The father and son split a piece of bread as they watched it go down, each itching for what was to come.

Techno slipped his sword from its sheath, turning the golden blade from side to side in his hand. It gleamed suddenly with the torch that Phil had lit, stuck into the snow and unthawed ground, casting a warm light in contrast to the soft glow of the moon, hanging full and round over their heads. The beams it created dappled through the pines and spruces, pinpricks and straight lines of luminance hitting them.

When the hiss cut through the quiet, wind-rustled sounds of pine needles, Techno knew the Hunt had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the feels, boys?
> 
> btw you can find a more high quality version of the art on my Insta @no_body.exe_ !
> 
> also if you know what song the titles are from shh im sorry
> 
> comments really make my day! but, as always, wherever you are; have a nice day.


	4. the nights when undead roam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they fight. blood disappears from where it stained cloth red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! this is where we get into New Territory so tell me how you feel about it! as always, feedback and comments are so so appreciated!

He jumped into action, and with two quick slashes, dispatched the silently sneaking creeper that had tried to gain on them, feeling a grin slowly tugging the corners of his lips upward as it dissipated into gunpowder and particles, whatever stitching it together dissolved. 

A similar puffing noise came from behind him, and his grin only grew at the sure sign Phil was doing similar to his foes; zombies, guessing by the groans.

Techno angled the flat of his blade above him to block the path of the projectile hurtling towards him, knocking the arrow harmlessly out of the air. The glint or the flint head had caught his attention, allowing him to simply bat away the speeding missiles. When he was close enough it was easy to sever one half of the skeleton from the other, collapsing the bones and watching as the majority of them dusted, leaving only shards behind.

A groaning, shambling figure interrupted him, forcing him to hold up his blade against his opponent. Undead took a few slashes, usually; zombies could have a few hacks taken from them before they failed to lumber forward anymore. 

A sudden sluggish feeling slowed his limbs as he felt the head of a hollow arrow shatter harmlessly against his back. A slowness arrow, he presumed, based on the rarity of strays, the stupid skeleton variant only native to the colder biomes. 

“Phil!” He called out, occupied. He grimaced as he pushed against the persistent zombie, dealing it another slash while it dragged itself, determined, forward. “A, uhh, little help when you get the chance!”

He turned to look over his shoulder at no response, barring the zombie from pressing forward with the flat of his blade.

Phil was standing still, head down but facing him, sword hanging so it’s tip pointed towards the snow. 

The shadows from the flame flickered over his stoic form, hair hanging into his face.

“Phil?” He called again, more unsure. An uneasiness was creeping into his gut, the shudder of nerve ghosting along his shoulders and raising his skin, goosebumps prickling under it. 

The figure looked up.

Techno thought it was a trick of the light; the moon reflecting against his father’s eyes.

When his face was cast in shadow, and they still beamed brighter than the scattered light cast around the area, he thought otherwise. 

Some urgency caused his body to jerk on instinct, shifting and stabbing into the zombie, fighting against the molasses still affecting his limbs. It smoked and disappeared, poofing into dull sand, chunks of the putrid flesh scattering to the ground.

Another glimmer caught his eye.

He twisted, the honey clogging his veins dragging his limbs miles behind his thoughts.

The figure’s head turned towards the skeleton. Techno caught a normal shine on a widened eye; no longer glowing white but reflecting the panic Techno was sure he was projecting. 

The sword lying limp straightened in Phil’s grip. In a leap, he knocked over the torch flickering over the clearing. Techno watched as he stepped within the path of the arrow. His movement was disjointed, wings fluttering without grace or intent.

His diamond blade flattened in front of him, thin edges outstretched to the sky and floor. The projectile whistled towards him.

The deflection missed.

The angle at which he finished his turn meant he could see how his father’s body jerked, back arching out to the sky, suspended briefly in his jump. His hair was tangled and haloed over his head, though it dotted with red from where the blood had sprayed when the arrow pierced the left side of his chest.

When his body hit the snow, Techno too slowed to even hope of catching him, he felt a great wave of energy wash over him.

His knees buckled, eyes struggling not to roll back and close.

He fell back into the snow, body struggling against the sudden paralysis.

Techno’s consciousness slipped, head lolling towards where his father’s limp form was speckled with moonlight. 

His eyes fluttered shut.

He couldn’t hear when all around him, the remaining mobs crumpled like marionettes cut from their strings. 

—

He shot up with a start, fingers bitten and gnawed from thawing cold. He almost knocked heads with the blonde kneeling in front of him, who clutched his hands probably to avoid the outcome of being attacked.

Techno’s heart calmed from its racing state, deaccelerating from where it had been straining against his ribcage.

“Phil?” He croaked. He got up to his knees, opening his hands to force his father to release him. Techno pressed clawed hands to his father’s center, pressing down lightly. No tacky liquid greeted him, nor spreading red. He stared at it, head pounding and hands trembling. 

“Wh…” he trailed off.

“Gods; Tech’, you okay?” Phil’s hands fluttered nervously, wings bristling, like he was unsure what to do. “You fuckin’— went nuts on the mobs.”

“You got shot.”

“No— no, I deflected it. See?” Phil opened his coat. No redness spread through his shirt, no darkened splotches where there had been last night.

The darkness had passed; the sun glowed through the trees, warmer, embracing the two. The snow felt wet, melting only slightly beneath the rays of the hanging light.

He sat up more, pressing a cold hand to his temple and, glancing around.

Around the two, corpses of mobs and piles of dust were scattered intermittently, each brutally slashed.

“I— I don’t remember that.” Techno confessed, rubbing at his eyes. As he pressed his knuckles against his aching vision, images passed behind his eyelids. White eyes, a lowered sword, a flashing arrow. “I— I honestly don’t know what happened. I thought—“

“You were like a man possessed.” Phil offered a gloved hand to his son, held in front of his chest.

Techno took it, stumbling with his steps and into his father. He took the hit with only a minor sway, supporting his son’s weight with an arm and wing under him. Both swords were strapped to Phil; neither showed any sign of crimson.

“Let’s go home, yeah mate?” Phil studied his son, obviously concerned.

“Yeah.” Techno exhaled. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. All it reflected back to him was the scene he remembered from the previous night, shaded in a haze of glowing white.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn what the fuck weird memory issues there techy boy
> 
> wherever you are, have a nice day.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always so welcome and appreciated! they really make my day! thank you so much if you have commented, or read this! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> as always, wherever you are, have a nice day!


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